


Mama's Boy

by memymo



Series: The Echizens [1]
Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Character Study, Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 17:06:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1274365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memymo/pseuds/memymo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He couldn’t see that Ryoma wasn’t his, but her baby boy all along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mama's Boy

**Author's Note:**

> For kittykittyhunter

Nanjiroh liked to think that Ryoma took after him in a lot of way. A second copy. That Ryoma was his, all his. He liked to brag about that too, loudly and childishly. The man seemed to never age pass the age of five.

And whenever he did, Rinko just smiled and nodded, seemingly agreeing with him.

After all, what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.

He didn’t need to know that Ryoma knew how to speak before he could picked up a racquet. The first thing he ever said to her was “cat”, one quiet afternoon when Nanjiroh was off with his old friends. She remembered that still, her baby boy, eyes wide with wonder and amazement at the sight of the neighbour cat that he dropped his lollipop. The second thing he said was “mama.” He never called her in front of Nanjiroh, out of petulant childishness. But when they were alone in the house, lounging by the pool or dancing in the kitchen, he would quietly called her and clutched her dress tightly, not letting go.

(Coincidentally, the first word Ryoma ever said to Nanjroh was “baka.” Where he picked it up, she didn’t know. She suspected Nanjiroh himself)

She never told Nanjiroh that tennis wasn’t the only constant passion in Ryoma’s life. Somewhere, buried in the orange ray of California and the unbearable heat was an angel’s voice, soft and graceful, little chubby fingers tried their best to follow diligently on the black and white keys (desperately out of sync). She often wondered, what would happened if Ryoma never pick up that tennis racquet. He would probably be famous right now, playing in some prestigious halls, charming the world with this exquisite voice. Instead, he would now conquered it with the red racquet.

(Sometimes, she could hear it still, his voice and the smile he gave her, the excited shout of “Mama!” as he learned another piece. He always tried to play Frank Sinatra for her)

Nanjiroh didn’t know about the books hidden under Ryoma’s bed, away in his closet, the words of Dickens and Dumas and Thoreau. He didn’t know that when he was away on some errands or just out with his friends, her little boy would trotted off to the library, trying his best to get some books and get her to read it to him. Energetic and precocious he was, he could sit still for hours on end, listening to her reading Winds in the Willow and Winnie the Pooh. More often than not, she always found him falling asleep on her laps, his hat askew.

(She regretted when he learned how to read by himself and not needing her any more. But sometimes, when she caught sight of the tattered copy of Winds in the Willow, her heart warmed and she gave him a secretive smile. He never smiled back, her boy was just so shy sometimes).

There were bits and pieces here and there, hugs and tears and little dances in the kitchen, laughter and bright-eye wonders that Nanjiroh was never aware about. Not the afternoons spent at some little cafe tucked away in the corner of the cities, or lazy mornings in the library. He didn’t know about the clumsy handmade cards for birthdays and Mother’s day, about the little treats Ryoma sometimes left in her handbags on bad days. Her husband was brilliant in many ways, but he was also obtuse like that. He couldn’t see that Ryoma wasn’t his, but her baby boy all along.

Well, Rinko wasn’t going to dash his delusions any time soon. It would be much more fun for that to come from her son instead.


End file.
